


So It Goes

by tomatoleries



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Drinking, Filipino Lance (Voltron), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pop Culture, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatoleries/pseuds/tomatoleries
Summary: Lance had been many things, and he remembered them all.He was a soldier, a professor, a marine biologist. He was a fisherman, an Olympic swimmer, a gun-for-hire.An orphan.A family man.A pilot of an alien sentient machine. Defender of the universe. So many things. But presently, Lance was loathing this current life. Lance needed a drink. Or, like, twelve.And then, somehow, Lance finds the other four.--a self-indulgent band AU + reincarnation AU rolled into one





	1. From the Top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is literally born from all my favorite AU things. It's a mess. Also, see end notes for translations and stuff.

It began again, for Lance, on a Tuesday. Hunk had called him up for a few drinks, _plus I_ really _have to introduce you to my friends, you never make it when I invite you but Lance, bud, you’ve been working yourself to the bone, come on, support a guy and his band? Please?_ and Lance didn’t have the heart to say no to his best friend, not when he’s practically begging him to go, bribing him with _I’ll even pay for your food,_ and _I’ll do your homework for you,_ and Hunk was willing to go as far as _I’ll even give you the skin off my chicken joy next time, Lance, just take a break and come by, alright?_

 

It was just Tuesday, but already Lance could use a Friday.

 

Work was horrible, school was horrible, life in general was horrible, and Lance had been teetering between sanity and the all-too familiar dark for weeks now, because sometimes he can pretend he’s fine with all of this, but most times he’s just tired.

 

He had stopped counting after the twentieth go: he remembers each and every turn, every life, every set-up, but it’s a hit and miss for everyone else, and man, does his luck have horrible aim at the rest of them. There was a time he had hoped to seek them all out, even if the universe is a huge clusterfuck of planets and galaxies and he knew they could be out there and not in this tiny floating rock he calls home and he didn’t know where nor how to begin, he never did, and eventually he had stopped trying.

 

He was resigned to the fact that there will always be that gaping hole in his chest, telling him the people that should be there with him aren’t, and he’s supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else, but isn’t, and Lance would be overcome by the urge to run to the shore, swim to the depths, and never stop until he’s anywhere but here, until he’s anyone but himself. Some nights he’d find himself wandering by the seaside of his hometown, find himself questioning his own judgment as he floated on his back, the ocean lapping at his ears, his body lulled by the coming and going of waves, and in those moments it’s so easy to pretend nothing exists but him and the water and the stars up above. He’d cry, then, salt mixing with salt, because he doesn’t know what else to do. How do you look for people you don’t know? How can you miss someone you’ve never been with – not here, not this time around -- ? He would weep openly at the sky, then count his blessings in one hand, and allow the ocean to swallow his body and he stays, he sinks, until it’s time to come up for air.

 

There was a time when he tried, but that was six lifetimes ago, and now he’s just tired.

 

So, he dropped by the bar, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, fingers absently playing with the lint they’d find in it. The inside of the establishment was warm, filled with people and idle chatter under dim lights and easy background music. He weaved his way through the crowd, looking for an empty seat. Hunk was already up on the stage, setting up the keyboard, and his eyes immediately found Lance. His face lit up, and Lance waved back, settling on an empty chair smack dab in the middle of the room. He would have preferred the more comfortable-looking couches off to the side, but beggars can’t be choosers, so Lance dropped his bag on the seat next to him and ordered a drink. Onstage, someone sidled towards Hunk, twirling something between their fingers, and _Oh, there’s Pidge_ , his mind helpfully supplied, before his heart seized and Lance had to grip the table, _really_ grip it tight, to make sure he doesn’t fall straight into another realm.

 

“What,” he muttered, throat suddenly dry.

 

A million thoughts were running through his head with every passing second – if Hunk managed to gravitate towards Pidge – when did this even—Lance was sure Hunk didn’t remember, Hunk somehow _never_ remembers, but if they found each other, and now _he_ found _them_ —

 

_Are the others here?_

 

With a shaking hand he downed a shot, ordered two more, and he would laugh at how ridiculous everything suddenly was, if he wasn’t feeling a wave of nausea washing over him. Finding Pidge here, _with Hunk_ , was a miracle in and of itself, and really, he’s only setting himself for a letdown here _, get it together Lance, come on, it’s like you’ve never been through this before_ —

 

But still he looked around, and sure enough, his eyes found another person up there, and _oh God, he still has that awful mullet, of all the things to stay with him every fucking time_ , and Lance had to laugh now despite himself, his vision blurring like he’s underwater.

 

Keith was here too. Fiddling with the guitar, testing a few strums. Adjusting the tuning. Plucking through a few chords. Looking up right at him, and Lance swallowed hard.

 

He counted a heartbeat, two, three, four, before Keith’s brows were drawing together and he was looking away from him. _Typical_ , Lance thought, _the jerk_ , and he laughed again – he’s too happy to mourn the lack of recognition, because that’s three – _three!_ – out of four, and he has certainly done so much worse than this. He was practically vibrating in his seat. It’s been so long. His arms heavy, his palms sweaty, he totally understood Eminem in that moment as he puked metaphorical spaghetti all over himself, and in the back of his mind he told himself _, this isn’t mom’s cooking, this is your heart, so let it all out, let it spill. Let it overflow, because you’re not alone anymore,_ and he found himself fighting tears through his third shot, his body buzzing and warm with alcohol and the feeling that this is where it begins, this is where it begins again. He had waited literal lifetimes for this. Lance was giddy, Lance was grinning like a maniac, Lance was physically fighting the urge to jump up there and engulf them all in an embrace, like the wave that missed the shore _so_ much, but no, he can't, that would be weird, and they didn’t know who he was, but heck, he wanted them to know him, to remember him, remember everything like he did—

 

He’s getting ahead of himself here, he decided, so Lance stepped back, and counted the people onstage:

 

One, Hunk, his best friend, his _only_ friend, the one person he managed to not tick off a minute into meeting him, and the first one he stumbled upon, some six years back in college, who was presently looking at him with equal parts worry and confusion. Lance rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, and grinned and started waving wildly, hands everywhere all at once, flailing about and giving him two thumbs up in an effort to assure him he’s fine. He’s better than fine, Lance thought, because as Hunk nodded with half a doubt at Lance’s antics, Pidge called out to him, checking the amps, and that’s two: Pidge, damn Pidge, back at it with the white vans, and the green overalls, and the round glasses, and the lacking height that’s more than compensated for by the brains and the snark and oh, how he missed this not-a-kid.

 

His eyes moved to the surly looking man to the left of the stage, trying to manoeuvre where the guitar fell so it’s not uncomfortable when it was against the bulk of the red flannel shirt tied around his waist, and “Keith, you idiot,” he mumbled, counting three, “just adjust the damn strap, man,” and Lance had to laugh again.

 

In the span of mere minutes, Lance has laughed way too many times than he has ever had in the past week. His eyes swept across the stage as they finished up with the preparations, and wouldn’t it be funny if Shiro was somewhere in this crowd? He quickly looked over his shoulders, expecting the punchline, hoping against all hope that the fates would will it, that it will deliver, and was met with a room full of strangers, and the beginnings of disappointment creeping to his stomach.

 

He shook his head. He’s already far too blessed this time, the universe can’t possibly be this good to him unless it’s about to take something away from him, and right now, Lance mused, there really isn’t much to take, so. Yeah. He’s thankful, he should be, he reminded himself. Three out of four wasn’t bad, it was good. Way better than the odds. He’s grateful.

 

But, still. What if.

 

The seat to his right was empty. He calmed himself down, taking in deep breaths as he planned how to approach them later. Hunk would have his back, and oh god, they’re probably the friends Hunk had always wanted to introduce to him, weren’t they? He was left with one paladin missing, and he imagined the tall guy, face handsome and kind, always too kind, smiling politely at him, asking if the empty seat was taken. It’s not _completely_ unlikely, right? He had thought finding even half of them in one place was as easy as draining the ocean with a spoon: It was just impossible. _This_ was impossible, but somehow, there they all were, obliviously dropped by the universe right in his fine fucking face.

 

Lance cradled a bottle of beer in his hands. Twirling it on the table once, twice, and then taking a huge gulp, he thought, _goddamn_. He had the order of his drinks all messed up, he should’ve saved all that whisky for last, what if that’s not really them, what if he’s just already drunk? Lance was a mess, a still-grinning, still-unbelieving mess, so, cheeks heating, fingertips numbing, he counted them again: _one, two, three_ , as if the atoms making them up would break apart and dissipate if he didn’t acknowledge their existence in that moment.

 

And again: _One, two, three,_ and someone was half-jogging from the right, tall and apologetic to the three, to _his_ three, muscles flexing with every movement, a fucking benevolent, monochromatic god in a black muscle tee and a checkered scarf around his neck. The lights were dim, and as he gave a signal to someone off-stage, Lance followed the frays of his ripped sleeves to an arm covered in black ink. He thought, _this is impossible_ , but he already had the scar across his nose, the white tuft of hair sitting atop his forehead, and _this is impossible_ , because his left arm was covered in tattoos and his right arm was blank and very well attached to the rest of him and holding the microphone, and _this is impossible_ because the lights were on them now, and Shiro rattled off a short introduction addressing the crowd before Pidge tap-tap-tap-taps and just like that, he was lost in the spilling melody. _This is impossible_ , Lance asserted, even as Shiro looked him in the eyes, smiling, and _this is impossible,_ because then Shiro opened his mouth and started singing about what happened to them, _all_ of them, lifetimes and lifetimes ago. Practically narrating it in song, as if it just happened yesterday.

 

_“This is impossible_ ,” he repeated under his breath, and yet Lance dared count four. And so began his demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the formatting isn't all weird, I'm painstakingly posting this all on mobile lmao ANYWAY, a few things:
> 
>  
> 
> 1.) I'm saying this right off the bat, at some point this fic is gonna touch on some dark/heavy themes. I'll put up warnings once we're there  
> 2.) Everyone is 18+ yrs old  
> 3.) Chicken joy is a heavenly chicken meal from Jollibee, a Filipino fastfood chain. Holy shit, the crisp chicken skin, the juicy meat, all that goodness can reduce grown men to tears of pure bliss  
> *if the links don't work, which I'm almost too sure definitely won't, please just kindly google them if you're really curious  
> 4.) Lance is Filipino in this fic. A Jollibee fanboy, a tabo connoisseur, all that jazz
> 
>  
> 
> Also  
> -I'm down with shipping everyone with everyone, so I have no idea what endgame will be. I'm Shklance trash tho so u know, these three have a higher chance of getting together  
> -Idk how long this is gonna be  
> -I haven't written anything in literal years. Voltron basically resurrected my muse and kicked my ass straight up and over the writer's block  
> -The rating is probably gonna go up, but if it's due to ~dem sexytiemz~ or themes or both, I'm not sure yet, so hella


	2. Intro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance deals with a hangover. And then, Lance tries again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anything else, EVERYONE PLEASE LOOK AT THIS [BEAUTIFUL SHIRO FROM THE FIRST CHAPTER](https://twitter.com/avcd0/status/776817194063716352) MADE BY [KRAY](http://krayonela.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> DUDE, IF U SEE THIS, I'LL NEVER BE OVER THIS BEAUTY, OK, THANK YOU U PRECIOUS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

-

 

 

Lance waking up was like trying to pry apart the glued flap of a paper envelope: slowly, carefully, the edges of his eyelids feeling like they were being ripped from his skin.

 

His awareness, too, came slowly, in small patches: The smell of mothballs clinging to the blanket over his face. _Jesus,_ what _is digging into my rib?_ The muffled sound of pots and pans and cooking. The blinding light that looked red-orange through his stubbornly closed eyes. _Someone’s in the kitchen_. The steady thrumming of his pulse. The wave of heat washing over his skull with every heartbeat, just underneath his skin. The smell of garlic and frying. _I don’t have a kitchen_.

 

Slowly, so as to not disturb what felt like an entire world sitting in his throat just waiting to be born, he turned on his back and finally opened his eyes. And then, more awareness: brown stains on a low-hanging off-white ceiling. An old blanket the color of mustard. Under his limp body, a fading teal couch. He blinked once, twice, and realized he should really get up and get a glass of water.

 

He was just thankful his head was propped up on two pillows. With a grunt he arched his back and reached for the offending object trapped beneath him, and elected to do the wisest thing he could come up with, given the situation.

 

 

 

 

> **Princess Ruto (10:28am):** Hnk
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:28am):** Bro
> 
>  

And then he set his phone on his stomach, hoping he didn’t butt dial anyone while he was passed out. Briefly he entertained the thought of drifting back to sleep, because being awake was the very definition of suffering right now, and he was starting to regret ever being born with a head intact. But his bladder was nearing full capacity, his throat was drier than fire, and he’s really, really hungry.

 

 

 

 

> **Princess Ruto (10:34am):** Stop ignorung me
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:35am):** This kills yhe man, man
> 
> **Majin buu (10:36am):** Omg stop being a drama queen
> 
> **Majin buu (10:36am):** I’m making u food :)
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:36am):** Shit bro
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:37am):** I loveu
> 
> **Majin buu (10:37am):** Just
> 
> **Majin buu (10:37am):** Pls don’t throw up on my couch ok
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:37am):** Lmao das rich
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:38am):** Coming from ou
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:38am):** But
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:38am):** Ur asking for too much here man
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:38am):** Ohgod
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:39am):** Omfg
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:39am):** Im so srry hunk………………

 

From down the hallway, a horrified scream: “ _Lance, don’t you dare!”_ and Lance laughed.

 

* * *

 

Hunk was an angel. Hunk was heaven-sent. Hunk was a proof of God’s grace, sent to this miserable planet so Lance didn’t lose faith in all that is good and bright and beautiful. Lance was certain of this fact, and he wasted no time making sure his friend knew.

 

Lance professed this to his plate full of fried rice and eggs and _tocino_. “I’d build a shrine for you, man. I’d do anything you command me to.” He stabbed at a particularly large chunk and viciously tore at it with his teeth. “I’d, I’d even, I‘unno,” Lance mused, chewing messily. “Drink an entire lake for you. Or an ocean. Be the right leg to your left leg. Give you all my desserts.”

 

Hunk chortled. “To be honest,” he said in between spoonfuls, “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t drink like that again.” He swallowed, took a sip from his coffee, and then continued. “Of course, you won’t listen, but I just want to put this on record, in case you die of alcohol poisoning, that I have all the rights to say ‘I told you so’ in your funeral.”

 

“Dude, _you_ told me about the liquor before beer thing. If any, last night’s all your fault.”

 

“Oh no.” He pointed his spoon at Lance, bits of rice flung to his general direction. “You are _not_ turning this against me.”

 

“It’s true though,” Lance argued, feeling quite petty, and knowing it’s not true at all. After practically dragging his legs to the bathroom, he crawled his way back to the couch, and he hasn’t moved since. His plate was balanced precariously on an especially fluffy pillow set on his stomach. He watched it bob up and down slowly, and was suddenly uncomfortable with the fact that he’s now aware of his breathing. _Inhale… Exhale… Inhale…_

 

“It’s not and you know it.” Hunk was using his Mom Voice. Lance frowned, but continued eating anyway. “You were supposed to drink hard liquor first and then when the buzz sets in, you take the rest of the evening easy with beer. That’s how it works! _Not_ take four shots and then like, another half a bucket!”

 

Lance thought of a comeback and found none. “I didn’t drink _that_ much.” His defense was flimsy and he knew it.

 

“Oh, yeah, sure, we played like three sets, Lance, and when you ordered more drinks I thought it was gonna be for us and the guys, but halfway through the second song I realized you were halfway through everything too, but of course it’s _not that much_.”

 

“Stop exaggerating, sheesh,” he whined instead. He poked at the eggs, still runny, just how he liked it, while Hunk would always gag at the taste of uncooked yolk. “It’s not like I got myself in trouble. Plus, the alcohol made me even more charming, right? I know tipsy me scores hella more than sober me,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at Hunk.

But Hunk was having none of it. “Lance. You threw up all over Keith’s shoes.”

 

He laughed. Yeah, he vaguely remembered red sneakers. Rips on the knees of black skinny jeans. A short adult or a tall kid cackling. The faint smell of bleach fighting a futile battle against the stench of urine. Soaked knees. Blue bathroom stalls that won’t lock. Strong arms trying to keep him on his feet. Queasy mumblings of his friend somewhere in the distance. “Little shit deserved it, I bet,” he concluded.

“It’s not funny, man, come on. Shiro was really worried.”

Lance smiled fondly. Of course he was.

“Like, if I were him, I’d bolt if someone started saying really weird things and hanging all over my arm. But Shiro was asking about you this morning, and—“

“Wait—“ he almost choked on his food. Lance sat up, eyes on Hunk. “He was? Really ?”

“Yeah, and—“

“Seriously? So like, does he--? Is he--?”

“Yeah, so—“

“Fuck,” he breathed out, cutting his friend off again. “Oh my God. _Fuck!”_ He was grinning so much his face hurt. There were bits of pink cured pork stuck between his teeth. Hunk made a face.

 

“Would you listen?” He sighed. “I think you really disturbed him with all that space babble you were on last night.”

“Space babble?”

“Hey, I understand if you want to pretend last night never happened—“

“I wasn’t talking to him about the space lifetime, was I?”

He sighed. “I really have no idea what you were talking about last night, man.”

Lance paused. _Oh God._

“Probably more of those past life stories you’re always on about.”

“Oh my God,” Lance said aloud. “What did he say?”

 

Hunk looked at him intently, breathed in, and with his best mock Shiro impression, spilled, _“Oh, my dear Lancey boy, I am so glad you remember me as well, I have been travelling light years looking for you, these memories have plagued me for so long! Please, never leave my side again, for you are an anchor, the North Star I seek in this stormy sea.”_

 

“Hunk,” he tested. “I’m serious. Did… did he really say that?”

He grinned, finishing his meal. “Oh, yeah, sure, totally.”

 

Smiling, he scooped up the last bits of his food to his mouth. Of course Shiro didn’t say that, but the thought made him feel warm all the same. That, and the fact that Hunk wasn’t too nervous talking about him meant he didn’t do anything _too_ offensive. Probably. But Shiro had asked Hunk how he was doing. Lance was officially in his orbit, and by extension, Keith’s and Pidge’s as well, and he couldn’t be happier.

 

Slowly he got up to help Hunk with the dishes, going over last night’s events. It’s not that the memories were hazy, just… surprisingly lacking in detail. He knew at some point he found himself on his feet, shaky knees and hands, barely able to keep himself from toppling over. Shiro looked surprised but pleased, then, as well as Hunk. Probably they thought he was so into the music he was giving them an early standing ovation, which really wasn’t too far from the truth; Shiro’s voice alone was enough to lose himself in. If Lance closed his eyes, it looked like white sheet fluttering in the summer wind, rippling, warm and soaked with the midday sun, stretching on and on, curving with each lilt, each note, each melodic rise and fall, the length as endless as the song goes – against the backdrop of maroon that is Keith’s playing, all-encompassing, all around, all at once -- and he could almost reach out to run his hand through it, wrap it around himself, make him feel like he’s home.

 

He hasn’t known them this time for more than an hour, and yet Lance has got it so bad already. So he emptied as many bottles as he can, as many as his body would allow him without pissing in excitement and glee. And then, when they were finished, Lance remembered having had to weave his way through a crowd to get to the stage to greet them. He remembered Hunk introducing them, he remembered thinking to himself, _Cool it, man, don’t freak them out, cool like cucumber, like tequila, like the sweat at the back of your neck_ , because he had laughed at his own unfunny humor at that, and earned Keith’s probing stare. He remembered that.

 

Sometime in all the wild commotion that was last night, Lance remembered actually talking to them. He remembered casually mentioning the tattoos on Shiro’s arm. He remembered asking about his other arm. He remembered making Shiro chuckle, making Pidge double over in laughter, making Keith fidget uncomfortably where he stood.

And then… what else?

 

He asked them about the song. He knew he did. He couldn’t _not_ have asked about that. But he couldn’t quite place the exact moment he did. There were a lot of things Hunk told him that he wasn’t sure actually happened, and given his tendency to bullshit him for fun, he honestly wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

 

Although admittedly, what Hunk told him didn’t sound too far off, considering the totality of Lance’s being.

 

He had hissed earlier when he ran his hand through his hair out of habit – and then Hunk laughed. Looking at his reflection in the mirror for the first time that day, he was greeted with an ugly, swelling bruise on his forehead. If Hunk’s retelling of the events that happened the night prior were to be believed, Lance had apparently hit his head some time when he went to the bathroom.

“Like, after you ruined Keith’s shoes with your guts. I said I should get you home. And then you insisted you had to go to the bathroom first.”

“I don’t remember that.”

Hunk paused, holding the plate through running water a beat too long. “Do you feel weird?” He asked.

“What?”

“I mean right now,” he clarified. “I’m starting to worry you actually had a concussion.”

He gave out an exhale of a laugh. “Nah, I’m fine. I just can’t remember a few things from last night.”

“Because you were drunk as heck.”

Lance flicked the forks he was drying at Hunk’s direction, sending beads of water straight at his face. “I was not!"

“Yes you were,” Hunk insisted. “You were so drunk you can’t even remember how you hit your head.”

 

He laughed.

“You were so drunk you probably don’t even remember fighting me for ‘ _bathroom independency rights_ ’.”

Dude,” Lance sniggered. “What the fuck even, dude.”

 

“I,” Hunk started, then paused, unsure how to explain. He shook the plate absently, letting the water drip a bit, before handing it over to Lance. “When Shiro was basically manhandling you and I had to get you from his good shoulder to mine, and you said you needed to use the bathroom.”

“Yeah?” he prodded, wiping the plate dry.

“I was worried you won’t be able to walk on your own, but you insisted on going alone.”

“Well you gotta understand,” Lance snorted, elbowing him. “I’m as straight as a pube, but yeah, no, not like that, man.”

In a moment Hunk’s face was beet red “Oh God, Lance, I didn’t--! I didn’t mean like that!”

 _Adorable goof_ , Lance thought. “Yeah yeah,” he laughed. “I know, I know. So what happened after? How could you let me go all alone knowing I could’ve slipped and break my neck? Some friend you are, Hunk.”

 

“Well!” Hunk exclaimed. “I tried to walk you as far as appropriately possible, but you’re so ungrateful, you even threatened us, and I had no choice!”

“Threatened with what? Projectile vomiting?”

A pause. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

The shit-eating grin growing by the second on Hunk’s face somehow made him nervous. Nevertheless he pressed on. “What?”

 

“You said,” Hunk began, and then cleared his throat, preparing for another impression. “ _’A MAN needs to PISS by HIMSELF, Hunk, we have bathroom independency RIGHTS,_ ” he said, repeating the emphasis perfectly. “ _I love you, and you’re my best bud, but so HELP me, alright, if ANYONE, if ANY of you, follows me to the bathroom, all you SHITS will SEE why watersport is a KINK.’_ ”

 

Lance felt his throat constrict. “…no. I said that, in, in front of everyone?”

Hunk was even redder in the face now, laughing so hard he had to set the other plate down.

“Oh my God. Oh. My. God.”

“I didn’t even know ‘watersport’ had a different meaning until last night!” he wheezed.

 

Lance ran this new information through his still-throbbing head, and called on his creator again. “Oh God. So is that how I got this?” he asked, hand gesturing to the purple mess on his forehead. “Did… did Keith sock me after that?”

“Nah, no. After that,” Hunk stopped to catch his breath, “after that we let you go. But then 15 minutes had gone and you were still inside, so I decided to check on you, and _oh_ , oh God…”

“What?” Lance was agitated. “ _What_ , Hunk?”

"The bathroom was empty, but your foot was sticking out from one of the stalls. You, oh my God, Lance, you passed out in the bathroom, you were hugging the dirty toilet bowl, and you don’t even remember it, holy crap.”

 

Lance could feel the blood rushing to his face. He could have sworn he was aware of every single blood vessel in his face, abuzz as his entire skull slowly grew hot. “No, no way.”

Hunk started laughing again.

“Hunk!” he whined. Lance stared at his friend, willing him to take him seriously. “Hunk. Tell me.”

“What?” he stammered through the tears in the corners of his eyes.

“Did I...”

“What is it?” Hunk pressed on, tone threatening to spill over another laughing fit.

“Be honest,” Lance pleaded. “Did I…?”

“Did you what?”

“ _You know!_ ”

Hunk had started sniggering. “I don’t, man.”

Lance breathed in, braced himself for the truth. “Did I… did I pee my pants?”

Hunk blinked at him, and then started laughing again.

“Hunk, dammit!” Lance slapped his arm. “I’m serious! Oh my God!”

Hunk was whinnying like a dying horse, holding on to the sink for dear life, while Lance stared at him, unsure if he wanted to kick his friend or dig himself a grave.

“Dammit, Hunk,” Lance prodded his shin with his foot. “Just tell me, oh my God.”

He was still breathing hard, hand on his stomach, his entire weight against the sink like he couldn’t hold himself upright without support. “Nah, nah,” he eventually revealed. “Your pants _were_ wet though,” he explained further, having recovered a bit of his composure. “From like the shins to the knees, and I honest to God do _not_ want to know if it was dirty water or someone’s bodily fluid, either way’s _disgusting_ , so I just, ah, chucked it to the floor, the moment we got here.”

 

“Ah.” Lance sighed with relief, looking down at himself. “So that’s why I’m in my underwear.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, by the way, but I’m not letting something so filthy touch my couch.” Hunk had this sorry look on his face as he turned back to the sink; he knew at this point in their friendship there was practically no boundary between them, but he was still unsure if that was violating his friend’s personal space. 

“It’s fine,” he said, waving off his friend’s concern, sweet as it was. Then again, everything about Hunk was sweet. He wouldn’t have fed himself the whole day if Hunk took him back to his dorm instead, probably wouldn’t leave his bed until the day has come and gone. Lance didn’t have the guts to look him in the eye, but nevertheless he hoped the sincerity came through. All he had were words, and though he knew it was never going to be enough, with a quiet voice, he offered them anyway. “Thanks for taking care of me, Hunk.”

Hunk – he brightened up at that. “It’s no problem, man.”

Lance thought about the others, then. Their first meeting and already he cemented himself as a person they could never take seriously, and he groaned.

“Well shit,” Lance sighed. “They probably hate me now, huh.”

Hunk hummed, running the last of the dishes under the tap. “Keith, probably.”

Lance groaned. That wasn’t much of a surprise, but still.

“You did win Pidge over, though,” Hunk smiled fondly. “For some reason.”

Pidge. Of course. Despite everything that happened, everything he apparently did last night, this revelation warmed his heart. 

“So,” he peered at Hunk indiscreetly, putting on his sweetest smile, which, to Hunk, frankly looked more like a leer. “Do I get to see them again?”

Hunk chuckled, honestly amused at his antics, and with one look at his face, Lance knew he had already won. “You really like them, huh?” Hunk not so much asked as blatantly stated.

Lance shrugged. “Eh, they’re nothing special,” he grinned.

“Well,” he pulled the stopper from the sink, watching the soapy water swirl down, down, pretending to mull over a thought he was already set on. “Only if you promise to behave yourself.”

 

* * *

 

Keith trusted Shiro. Keith was a devout believer of Shiro. Keith would go to the ends of the world for Shiro. If Shiro disappeared, Keith knew he would scour the planet over and over, turn every stone upside down, comb through every grain of sand in every desert, and then back again, just to find him.

 

But right now, Shiro was asking for too much.

 

“He seemed like a good guy, Keith,” Shiro placated him. “He was just drunk.”

“No,” Keith, for how many times now, repeated. “He’s probably dangerous. He’s probably on drugs or something. Shiro, I don’t want us getting caught in the crossfire of whatever crap that dude is involved with.”

“Well, I like him,” Pidge announced, biting into their sandwich.

Keith whipped his head so fast to their direction his mullet almost slapped Shiro in the face. “ _What_?”

Shiro leaned away from Keith, then.

Pidge shrugged. “He seems like a fun guy.”

“Dangerous isn’t fun.”

“Says the dude who’s into drag racing.”

“ _Was_ into, Pidge.” He bristled. “Past tense.”

“That was _illegal_ drag racing too, might I add.”

“Hey,” Keith snapped, “that was a long time ago. I _stopped_.”

“Yeah yeah, anyway, I get that _maaaaybe_ he’s dangerous. But, I’m saying he’s also _fun_.”

Keith was at a loss for words. “I can’t believe you right now. Do you… are you actually buying what he said?”

Pidge paused and considered the odds. “It’s not that I _believe_ all that meeting in a past life… souls are connected… destiny… thing,” they said, gesturing wildly with the one hand unoccupied with their sandwich. “But I don’t _not_ believe it, either.”

Keith threw his hands up in the air. “That doesn’t even make any sense!”

 

Shiro listened on as they continued their bickering. They were having lunch at a small family-owned café, and with such a nice and warm weather, they decided to sit outside, under the canopy of the blooming vines arching overhead. Right now, Shiro was thanking the foresight of the decision; Keith’s steadily raising voice was already earning them a few stares from people passing by. He rubbed at his eyes.

“Keith,” he tried again, “at least give him another chance? Hunk has always been a good judge of character, and Lance is his _best friend_. He can’t be that bad of a person, right?”

“Hunk is too kind,” Keith mumbled before loudly sipping at his strawberry frappe. “And so are you. Also,” he tacked on, eyes narrowing at Shiro, “what do you mean ‘another chance’?”

“Actually, we’re gonna meet them, Hunk and Lance.”

Keith was already shaking his head even before Shiro finished talking. “Oh no,” he said, “we are _not_. You are _not_.”

Pidge thoroughly ignored him. “When?” They asked, bright-eyed and full smiles.

“Dinner, tonight.”

“Hah, yes!” They slapped a hand on the table happily. “Can’t wait!”

“Am I even here?” Keith asked.

Shiro turned to him, then. “Keith, please be reasonable.”

"I _am_ being reasonable!” His temper flared. Granted, if he was to listen to his guts, he would, _perhaps_ , concede to the idea, if not for the intrigue this Lance dude had about him, then for the fact that they do indeed need another guitarist, and Hunk’s videos of him playing was more than enough to convince them that he’s good. But the usually rational person in their team was presently all too happily eating a sandwich, ignoring all of his caution, and Shiro, bless this big guy’s heart, was already swayed by whatever the fuck happened last night. Someone had to be the voice of reason, so Keith steeled himself.

“I know you’re just trying to look out for us,” Shiro tried again. “But I really think he’s a good fit for the team.”

Keith huffed. “And why is that?”

Shiro ignored the question. “It’s not like he’s _already_ one of us,” he reasoned, and then frowned a bit at how that sounded wrong, somehow. “That’s why we’re meeting them. Think of it as a sort of screening test.”

“Ooh, I like that,” Pidge chimed. “We get to ask questions and all that, right? Investigate? Snoop around his head?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“’Sort of’?” Keith frowned. “’Kinda’?”

"Alright, okay, fine, it _is_ a screening test, then.”

 

Keith still would have preferred choosing from a pool of applicants, but between the four of them, they didn’t really have a lot of friends, except Hunk, and Hunk was adamant that the person they needed was Lance. He sighed. This was a lost battle from the get-go, but Keith has never been known to back down from a fight.

“He ruined my shoes, Shiro,” he pressed on.

Pidge snorted. “Stop being a baby!”

Shiro smiled that forgiving smile of his, absolving them from all the sins committed since the conversation started. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it, Keith.”

“Shiro, I can still feel the disgusting warmth on my feet.”

Pidge laughed. Shiro looked at him patiently, letting him pour out all his frustration. “That must have been hard, Keith.”

“Shiro,” he continued, “I can still feel his insides seeping through my socks.”

“Ewww,” Pidge groaned, and still they laughed.

“I know, Keith,” Shiro comforted him, patting his shoulder. “I know.”

“I will never be able to forget how it felt _between my toes_ , Shiro,” he said, and when Shiro started laughing, his fist pressed firmly against his mouth, Pidge cackling wildly beside him, Keith knew he had lost.

 

 

And so that evening, the three found themselves sitting in a cozy corner table fit for six in a late night bistro, while some four blocks away, Hunk walked quietly beside Lance, listening as he kept on with his tirade, leading them wordlessly to their meeting place.

“I _cannot_ believe you, man!” Lance repeated, and Hunk had already lost count how many times these words have been uttered since he broke the news. In all honesty Hunk had no clue why his friend was so worked up over this – somehow he had expected Lance to be happy with his plan – “ _actually, surprise! I’m not paying for dinner, Shiro is, because we’re having dinner with your new crushes!_ ” but instead he was met with…

This. Hunk looked to his left, and there he was: Lance with his hair sticking out in odd clumps, and again he ran his hands through them and pulled. “How could you not tell me! I would have, _ohmigod_ Hunk—! I would’ve worn something _nicer!”_

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, as if wearing something nice is gonna bleach their brains into forgetting what you did last night.”

“That’s _not_ \--!” Lance paused completely on the sidewalk, pressing his palms to his eyes so hard he started seeing purple stars. “That’s not the point, Hunk, oh my God.”

Lance willed himself to stay calm, tried to push, literally push back, at the tears beginning to form. Lifetimes and lifetimes of dreaming of them all together again, and now he’s about to royally screw it up. He wasn’t ready, he looked like shit, he didn’t know what to tell them, heck, he’s probably still ugly and pale from the hangover, his skin was dry, _he’s not ready_ , and Lance felt like he could puke blood at any moment.

It took him a few steps before noticing he had left Lance a few paces back, and _oh_ , Hunk realized, _this_ is _a big deal._

“I _just—!_ “ The heel of his palms still pressed firmly to his eyes, he straightened his back and stood with his full height, head tilted to the dark sky overhead. “I don’t want them to hate me, Hunk,” he confessed, voice breaking.

 

And then he understood.

 

 _As if your clothes matter, Lance,_ Hunk thought of saying. _As if your worth is only what you want people to see, as if what they see in you is all you really are. As if the oceans and oceans of endless depth that is you, Lance, full of creatures and secrets and worlds and entire universes with each crashing wave, can be summarized by the first impression you try so hard to make._

“I know you don’t take anything I say seriously,” Lance continued, and Hunk remained silent. “I know you don’t get it, but this is really, really important to me, man.”

A heartbeat. “I do take you seriously. And I get it, Lance. Believe me, I know,” because Hunk knew. He knew that. It’s why he was so excited to set this meeting in the first place. And _As if anyone can hate someone like you, Lance, you’re the best person I know, if only you’d stop selling yourself short_ , but as much as Hunk was prone to bursting with excitement and letting his feelings flow freely into words, he was not sure how to translate these, all these, into something Lance would understand, something Lance would accept, because for some reason, as much as Lance _craved_ love, hungered for it, begged for it with every worry and doubt so well-concealed by expertly crafted one-liners, every perfectly sculpted smirk – when handed the love he so deserved, somehow Lance couldn’t recognize what it was. And thus Lance continued drowning by his lonesome, caught in the waves and resigned to the fate of sinking.

 

All this, he wanted to tell him, but instead what came out of his mouth was: “I got you, Lance.”

And in the face of crashing tides that threatened to spill, Lance must have heard the truth in those words, because he lowered his hands and looked Hunk in the eyes.

 

Hunk smiled, huge hand soothing his back. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I thought it would be a fun surprise… but Lance, no bullshit, man, they’re gonna love you. You can come in there with garbage bags for clothes and they’ll still love you. I swear it.”

Lance pointedly looked at his sneakers, then – scuffed and worn, his favorites because they’re so comfortable, but not the ones he’d wear if he wanted to impress. And right now he really, really wanted to impress. Hunk sighed.

“Listen, I showed them the vids from way back in college, when we were in the talent pool,” and before Lance could launch into another fit, Hunk pressed on. “They _love_ you, man. I’m so sorry, I should’ve told you first, but I’ve been trying to get you to meet them but you… well.”

“I was stubborn and I kept saying I didn’t need any more people in my life, yeah, yeah. You’ve nagged me enough about this, _mom_.”

And by now Hunk knew when to pick at his words and wedge himself through which lines to get to what Lance truly meant. It was hard work when Lance got like this, and Hunk has never been one for riddles, so as much as Lance would speak in tongues, he’d answer back in the most bare, most honest language he could find. “I worry about you, Lance.”

He laughed. It sounded bitter to Hunk’s ears. “I can’t really blame you for that, can I? All those years, when--” Lance sniffed, sitting on the curb. “I’m a handful, I don’t know why you’re even still here with me.”

“Uh, hello?” Hunk followed him down on the dirty concrete. In the distance, an ambulance was blaring its sirens, fighting over the noise of constant honking and multitudes of engines stuck together in the city’s unforgiving traffic. A homeless kid was rummaging through the pile of garbage across the street. The streetlamp overhead flickered once, twice, and then glowed steadily, just a tad bit brighter. A few steps from them, through the gaps of a manhole, worn and forgotten, a cockroach crept out. _This is life,_ Hunk thought. _We’re fine,_ he thought. He breathed out. “You’re my friend, Lance.”

He sighed. “And I still don’t get what I did all those lifetimes ago that earned me so much brownie points that you get to be mine.”

Hunk punched him on the arm, then, lightly, and they laughed, and that was that.

Because that was how Hunk navigated through the tempestuous undercurrents of Lance -- with as much honesty and sincerity as he could muster, because he felt that’s what Lance wanted, what Lance deserved, from him, from life, from the world. He never had the answers, probably never will, but if he could at least give Lance this, then he’s fine. He’ll have his back.

 

So when they entered the pub, thriving with the night life and the bass-heavy music in the background, when Lance swaggered over to the three with all the fake bravado he could muster on such short notice, Hunk watched him closely, just in case. Dinner went great, the night droned on, Hunk could tell everyone was warming up to Lance, and Lance… was already right at home with them, somehow. Like they haven’t just met, like Lance didn’t just make a fool of himself in front of them the night prior, like they were no strangers to each other at all.

“But don’t get too cocky,” Keith warned, even though he had been watching Lance with warm eyes since the reveal that he, too, unironically still listened to La Dispute. “We still want to hear you play live,” he said, because it’s true, “and we can always look for someone else, or not at all,” because Keith has always been a bit rough on the surface, and the abrasions were but initiation rites, in a sense.

“Aw, Keith,” Shiro said, “don’t be like that.”

“Yeah, don’t be like that, Keith,” Pidge teased.

Keith rolled his eyes, but nevertheless gave Lance a lopsided grin. “Why not, though? We’re doing just fine.”

Shiro had a somewhat worried look on his face. “Keith, I know you’re really good with your hands,” -- and Lance had to raise his eyebrows here so high Hunk thought they’d be lost to his hairline – “but imagine what we can do with two guitars! Plus, I’m—“

“I know, I know,” Keith cut him off hurriedly, “I was just messing with you.”

“So uh,” Lance joined in, “who… plays the bass? I don’t think I remember a bassist last night.”

Pidge laughed. “Nah, you were just too hammered to notice.”

“Notice what?”

“The phantom fifth member of the band.”

“Pidge, please stop messing with him.”

“Yes, dad.”

Turning to Lance, Shiro explained. “We record the bass in advance. Keith can play it too, but playing live, the guitar takes priority, so,” he shrugged.

Lance blinked. “Alright… so Keith records the bass?’

“No, no,” Pidge quickly clarified, “Shiro does.”

Keith was quiet, then, staring at Pidge like he was conveying ten entire essay’s worth of death threats to them.

“What?” they asked. “It’s not like it’s a secret.”

“Well it’s not _now_ ,” Keith muttered.

“He was gonna find out anyway.”

“Keith, it’s fine,” and then Shiro smiled at Lance. “We can tell him.”

Lance was lost. He turned to Hunk, who was quietly finishing the rest of the bowl of chewy tofu and pork. “Tell me… what?”

Shiro answered him. “I, uh, can’t play the bass anymore, for long durations anyway. Shoulder issues. Health concerns. Fun stuff.”

 

Lance looked at Shiro’s right arm, then. Tonight, it was covered by the sleeves of a black zip-up hoodie, but last night’s memories weren’t a lie to him: Shiro still had two arms this time around, and Lance had wondered why Shiro had the left one tattooed instead of the right. He looked back to Shiro’s eyes, kind and warm, and Lance thought, _Ah, so there it is._

But he had watched them all as they ate their food. All night, as Lance answered their questions with ease, preening and prancing around the less sordid details of this life of his, he watched them too. Watched for signs of recognition. Signs of disgust. Watched Keith unflinchingly down a bottle of beer that, as Keith himself put it, “tastes like horse piss.” Watched Pidge eat all the tofu but not the pork. Watched Shiro sign the receipt for their food and drinks. _Wasn’t Shiro right-handed?_

“So anyway, yeah. With you around, Keith can play the bass during shows, and save us all the hassle of prerecording and all that. Plus, two guitars!”

Lance couldn’t shake the feeling that something still didn’t add up, but as he ran the facts given to him again and again, he saw no odd ends. He turned to Keith, and found that he had been staring at him all this time.

Lance put on his best smile. _I have a lifetime at my disposal,_ it said, _I’ll find you out soon enough_. “Hey, hey,” he called, hands held up in front of him. “Didn’t you guys want to hear me play first? Can we set a date? Because I’m game whenever you are.”

“Really?” Pidge had an eyebrow raised, feigning sudden curiosity with the onion slice they were poking with a fork. “Because Hunk had been telling us about you for like, years now, but you always seemed uninterested.”

To which Shiro nodded, and Keith stared at Lance with eyes demanding explanation, and Lance had to look at Hunk with betrayal written all over his face. “ _Those friends_ were _them_? Hunk, why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”

Hunk choked on a piece of tofu. “You didn’t want to listen! You never even let me finish talking!”

“Well I didn’t _know_ —“

“What, that we were your star-crossed lost buddies or something?” Keith was sneering at Lance over his beer, the teasing, infuriating grin plastered on his mouth.

Lance was still banned from alcoholic drinks, so he looked less intimidating as he sneered back over his glass of water, ice cubes bobbing about. “Well, _yeah_ , actually!”

And somewhere along that sentence, Lance realized he was going about the entire thing the wrong way, and there and then he felt like throwing up.

“I, uh,” he was squirming in his seat, looking for an exit. “I need to go to the bathroom, I’ll be, I’ll be right back.”

He all but shoved Hunk out of his seat so he could get away, and moments later Hunk’s phone was just as restless as Lance.

 

 

 

> **Princess Ruto (10:18pm):** HUNK
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:18pm):** HUNK INEEDNYOUR HELP
> 
> **Majin buu (10:18pm):** What?
> 
> **Majin buu (10:19pm):** Lance where are you??
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:19pm):** NO
> 
> **Majin buu (10:19pm):** Do you need me to come get you?
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:19pm):** JSUT STAY THERE
> 
> **Majin buu (10:19pm):** What do you mean no?
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:19pm):** SWEETNTALK YHEM INTO LIKING ME
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:19pm):** PLEASE
> 
> **Majin buu (10:19m):** They already like u tho :) :)
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:20pm):** HUNK PLS I AM HYPERVENTILATUNG JUST TELL YHEM
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:20pm):** GOOD THINGSNABT ME
> 
> **Princess Ruto (10:20pm):** WHILE IM HERE LOOKING FOR ACTYAL GOOD THINGS ABT ME WHILE TRYINH TO CALM DPWN ALRIGHT

               

Hunk sighed. With both hands unoccupied with a spatula or some other cooking paraphernalia, he was more than equipped to launch into a more verbose declaration, over chat, of exactly what he wanted to tell Lance, but just as he was preparing to type out a response, Pidge looked over, one arm draped across his shoulder, as they leaned precariously into his screen, blocking out his view.

“ _Whozzat_?” they asked. “Your _giiiirl_ friend?”

Immediately Hunk snatched his phone out of sight. “Uh, no. I was talking to Lance.”

“It said ‘Princess Ruto.’”

“Yes, because I’m convinced Lance is a Zora. Also, he’s as much a spoiled, petulant brat as Princess Ruto.”

“What?!” Pidge was indignant. “Princess Ruto is cute! _Cute!_ ”

“No way man, Team Saria for life.”

“Guys, please,” Shiro interjected, voice stern. “We all know Malon is best girl.”

 

“ _Anyway,_ ” Keith stressed, rubbing away the beginnings of a headache. The three had started devolving to loudly shrieking over each other in place of thoughtful, well-constructed arguments. He sighed. “Back to Lance. What did he say?”

At that, Hunk swallowed nervously, carefully avoiding Keith’s eyes. “He, uh. He said he’ll take a while, but he’ll be back,” and before anyone else could ask anything he was unprepared to answer nor lie about, Hunk decided to just take the steering wheel and drive straight into a tree. “So!” He exclaimed. “Lance, huh?”

“Yes, Lance,” Keith started, arms leaning on the table like he was in an interrogation room instead of a friendly pub. “Tell us more about him.”

Right. Hunk took a deep breath.

Hold.

Hold.

Hold.

Hold…

“Hunk.”

…Release. “Y-Yes?”

Keith sighed. “What’s taking him so long anyway? Is something up? It’s rude to make people wait.”

Hunk slammed his hands on the table. The dishes rattled. “Okay! Actually! I’m open to questions about Lance right now, while he’s not here, so you can ask me anything about him. Anything at all. The Lance Information Desk is officially open for queries. Will divulge dirty secrets and all that. Yeah? Any takers?”

Three sets of eyes gave him a blank stare each.

“Is he a con artist?” Keith asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “He sure is acting like a con artist, though.”

Hunk sighed, exasperated. “He’s _not_ , Keith, I’ve known the guy for years. You can trust him.”

“Um, actually,” Pidge spoke up, “I think you mentioned before that he’s still in his senior year in college plus holding a job…”

“As a con artist?”

“Keith, I told you, _no_.”

Pidge sighed. “So, anyway, do you think he can pull this off?”

 

All attention turned to Hunk, who readily assured them. “He’s just about done with the last of his required units, I’m pretty sure he can do it just fine. He’s used to things like this. Plus,” he added, lowering his voice, “I think… I think this will be good for him. I dunno, I just…” he shrugged, looking at them with sincere eyes.

Silence, as the three let his words sink in.

And then Keith broke the moment. “So,” he started, “why’s he still in college? Got held back or failed a handful of subjects or something?”

“Uh, no,” Hunk defended instantly, insulted on Lance’s behalf. “He doesn’t seem like it because he’s always acting like goofball, but Lance is actually very smart. He had to quit college for two years because his mom got sick and they needed the money for her treatment. So instead he took on twice the jobs he was already keeping at to help out with the expenses.”

Shiro and Pidge turned to Keith with condemning eyes. His face fell as he shrank back an inch. “How… his mom, I mean… how is she now? Is she—did she--?”

“Oh, she’s doing fine. Plus, one of his sisters just graduated and already got a nice job, so that’s another one helping them out. Lance can take a bit of a break.”

“Yeah, sheesh,” Pidge agreed. “Dude deserved it, I think.”

“Yeah,” Keith admitted. “He’s… he actually… sounds like a great guy.”

“Oh?” they piped up. “What was that? Shiro, did you hear that just now?”

Shiro laughed. “No, not really. What was that again, Keith?”

He frowned. “You heard me perfectly.”

Hunk had his face resting on his palm, and he grinned at Keith, amused at how flustered he was. “No, actually, we didn’t. Could you repeat that last bit for us?”

Keith groaned.

“C’mon,” Pidge nudged him.

“C’mon Keith,” Shiro encouraged.

“Yeah Keith, c’mon,” Hunk said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” Keith groaned. “Lance. Lance sounds like a great guy.”

 

* * *

 

Lance, out on the sidewalk and hunched over himself, would not agree. His legs were aching from squatting for so long, even when his back was leaning against the wall of the pub. If he looked through the window, he could probably see them in there talking about what he could only hope were good things about him.

 _I should probably go back now_ , he thought. He estimated Hunk would probably have run out of good things to say about him some three minutes after his disappearance. But he had been sitting out here too long that a few passers-by have started giving him loose change, and he thought it would probably be awkward now if he walked back in like he wasn’t the most suspicious thing on legs at that moment.

“I can’t face them like this,” he sighed, mumbling to himself. “Shit, I can’t face them at all.”

He sulked, watching strangers’ legs walk idly past him, too far down his self-pity to even care if they were staring. To his right, someone walked out the pub, and the momentary flood of music and the warmth of the place as the door swung open and close provided a sense of realism to his current situation. He frowned.

“Lance?” a voice called above him, and he looked up, and _shit_.

 

He bolted upright on reflex, and winced at the pain of his tired legs. His vision was swimming in purple stars and darkness, and he reached out to the wall to steady himself, and instead his hands found the ground.

“Oh, man,” Shiro hissed, to himself more than to Lance, he noted. “I’m so sorry for startling you.”

Lance groaned as he took Shiro’s offered hand, willing the darkness away.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, shaking his head, blinking. “What are you doing here?”

Shiro looked at him funny, then. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

And _oh, oh shit, I was supposed to be in the bathroom_. “I decided to get some air,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, technically. He did need some time to remember how to breathe again.

 

Shiro nodded like he understood. He leaned against the wall, one hand digging around for something in his back pocket.

 

Slowly, Lance sank back down the wall, resuming his tiring position sitting on his heels. He turned, looking inside through the window. From there, he could see Keith and Pidge laughing raucously while Hunk gestured wildly with both arms. He could hear their voices from where he was, though the meaning of the words spoken – stuttered – wheezed out in between breathless laughter – were all lost to the din of the bar coming alive and the city’s nightlife waking up.

 

Shiro had both hands brought up to his face, one hand cupped around the other, trying to light up the cigarette caught between his lips. Lance watched him quietly, the small flame dancing, briefly bathing his face in an orange glow. He ran through his library of memories for things to talk about – _your arm, your hair, how did you get that scar, Shiro, did you get a good night’s sleep? Nightmares still bothering you? How’s Keith? Are you guys brothers this time? Step-brothers? Just friends? Or maybe you guys are dating? How’s this life been treating you so far? Do you remember? Does Keith? Pidge? Did any of you miss me too?_

 

\-- And he swallowed at the thought –

 

_Because I did, I missed you, I missed all of you so much, I will never not miss you, each and everytime, Shiro, so I beg of you, please, please say you remember too—_

 

“I’ve been wondering,” Shiro said instead. “Keith was suspicious, too, but I think I should ask you directly.”

“Yeah?” his voice sounded strange from the lack of use. “What is it?”

“How did you know about, you know. The inks. The song.”

Lance stared.

“I mean,” he cleared his throat, flicking the cigarette between his fingers twice, “the lions. The lady with the white hair. The stars. The ships. The,” he chuckled, like everything was a ridiculous joke, “the purple guys. They’ve always been in the backdrop of my dreams, sometimes they come to me like images… but I’ve only ever told Keith about it. He said you might be a stalker, but I’m sure even a stalker wouldn’t have known about them.”

Lance supposed he should explain, but what came out of his mouth was a bitter, “You don’t remember, do you?”

He kept watching him, his face an open book all of a sudden. Shiro opened his mouth, and in a second, closed it again. He searched for answers in Lance’s eyes and somehow, all he found were oceans, begging, pleading, but he didn’t know what for.

“I don’t, I’m—“ Shiro tried, but that sounded wrong. “I mean—“ he tried again, and again words failed him.

 

Lance’s eyes were forlorn, but his mouth wore a misplaced smile. “Alright, alright,” he said, “answer this instead: do you always wear black and white? Like, is that a thing you deliberately do now?”

Shiro blinked at him. “I,” then looked down on himself, wrapped in nothing but black and white. “N-No…”

“You sure about that, buddy?”

With a small voice, he mumbled, “I wear gray too, sometimes…”

Lance started cackling.

He huffed, even as the beginnings of a smile was tugging at the edges of his mouth. He took another puff of smoke and breathed out. “And what about you? Do you always cry and declare your undying love everytime you meet someone new?”

He watched Lance’s face transform from a satisfied grin to a scandalized grimace.

“I did _not—!_ ” he protested, outraged.

It was Shiro’s turn to laugh “Oh, but you did.”

 

And Lance had to laugh with him, then, partly because yes, he most probably did that last night, and partly because Shiro still sounded so warm, after all these years, after all these lifetimes, and Lance thought it was funny, how some things never seem to change. “In my defense,” he said, “you guys aren’t really new people to me, anymore.”

 

Shiro’s eyes were a lighthouse, bright and unyielding, sending beams of light into the storm, and Lance was all too happy to indulge him and run himself aground. _I’ll tell you everything_ , he smiled. _My memories, our lives, I’ll give them all to you._

 

“Is that so?” Shiro smiled fondly despite himself.

 

Lance looked away and up at the sky, breathing in the cold air, breathing in Shiro’s smoke. Breathing in the night. “Mhm,” he hummed.

           

    

Up above, the sky was murky, haze and smog and the low-lying clouds dimly reflecting the city’s lights. The air was damp, and Lance let out a breath just as the first drops of rain fell down, first quiet, hesitant, and then in an instant, with a crescendo of rushing pitter-patters, all else started falling down all together, a sheet of lively streaks breaking up the metropolitan lights, hurrying to kiss the dry pavement to spatter and scatter into one. From where they were, by the wall and under the eaves, they were safe from the sudden downpour. Quiet, they kept each other company, watching the city get soaked, the water washing away the dust, the grime, the weariness of the day, like a baptism of new life, and as Lance smiled at the cold spray just barely caressing his face, misty shower carried by the great winds of the North East, he knew that just like this city, he was born anew, ready to begin again.

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okok so endless thanks, first and foremost, to Kray and Julia, my #TeamTabo and personal Voltron Support Group. Love u guys <3
> 
> And then to YOU! And all the readers and everyone, really. The support and feedback I got for my first fic on here is overwhelming.
> 
> So. Moving on... the appetizer Pidge and Hunk were hogging is chewy tofu and pork, in like... soy sauce and vinegar? With onions and pepper and what else... I'm honestly quite hazy on how food is prepared, all I know is how to eat it. But [_tokwa't baboy_](http://panlasangpinoy.com/2009/09/26/filipino-foodpork-fried-tofu-tokwat-baboy-recipe/) is p much a staple in a night of chill dinner and drinks with buddies. That, or _sisig_ , but that's for another paladin date :3c
> 
> [ _Tocino_](http://panlasangpinoy.com/2014/09/29/homemade-pork-tocino-recipe/) is a sweet cured pork. Originally a Spanish dish, it also has a Filipino variant. It's dark pink or almost red in color, and very, very delicious.
> 
> Also... I uh, made [a ficmix for So It Goes](http://8tracks.com/lerietella/and-again). Basically the mix I listen to specifically for this fic. It _might_ be a bit spoilery if you think too much about it... but if anyone's curious... it's. Yeah. It exists.
> 
> Now that the links are over and done with (THEY WORK NOW THANK FUCK), on to my ramblings: I SWEAR ending two chapters with a smattering of Shance is not intentional. It just... kinda happened. Just like the Hance all over the place. Like, seriously, reading through this and editing the thing, I realized I could easily just remove all those interactions... but I won't. The world needs to appreciate Hunk more ok. Ok.
> 
> This chapter is significantly longer than the first, and for good reason: as mentioned earlier, all the Hance kept stalling me, omfg. Also, I didn't really want to put up a chapter without anything significant going on, so after all the Hance was over and done with, I went on with plot happenings.  
> And _then_ , there's the matter of irl stuff going on. I don't think I can post another update this week, or the next, but hopefully before the first half of October is over, I'll have something up! Ah real life, always in the way of fandoms.
> 
> So, there we go. See you guys next chapter, which hopefully will drop soon enough! <3


	3. Treble Clef

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All in a day: The dreams, the traffic, the fear, the uneasiness of wanting to comfort someone you don't quite know yet, not in this life, anyway.
> 
> The trying, the failing, the trying again.
> 
> The fog, the clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings:  
> 1.) mild spice  
> 2.) mentions of road accidents, not too graphic, but it's there

 

* * *

 

“You can just stay.”

Lance shook his head. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He looked at him. His tail had a faint shimmer to it, a gradient of beautiful shades of red, cool to the touch and pleasantly slimy. Overhead, the moon was round and bright, but he knew the fast approaching clouds would bring with them angry lightning and biting winds. He could taste the coming storm in the air, crackling, manic, edged.

The waves were growing bigger by the minute. Lance was starting to feel panic rise up in his throat, and he swallowed it back.

“Why not, Lance?” Keith asked again.

Behind him, a shark was beached on the shore, fins gone, served on someone’s fancy dinner table. Even as the waves crashed loudly on the shore Lance could hear the flies buzzing around it, crowding his head with white noise. He shut his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I don’t know.”

“Stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Stay, Lance.” The shark was now Shiro, missing an arm and bleeding and dragging his half-decaying half-fish of a body across the sand to reach him. His tail was pitch black, like the night, like the dark when he closed his eyes, and the waves rising up the shore reached out hungrily, threatening to take back what was theirs.

“We love you, Lance,” Shiro whispered against the back of his ear.

He shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, we do,” Keith insisted. “We love you.”

He was chest deep in the ocean now, and the water continued to rise. Soon Lance had nothing below his feet and he started kicking at the water to stay afloat. But Keith’s cold hands were on his chest, creeping slowly, up, up, to his shoulders, to his neck, finally cradling his face.

“Stay,” Keith whispered to him, breath on his face, lips barely brushing against his.

Way below, in the depths, he could see Shiro, circling them, slowly and predatorily, and Lance felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Don’t,” he pleaded, even as he stopped kicking at the water, giving up on staying buoyant. “Don’t do this to yourselves,” even as he felt Shiro behind him, one hand on his stomach, mapping his torso, as his mouth did the same with his shoulder, his neck, his jaw.

Underwater now, Keith’s mouth cold against his, Shiro’s teeth grazing his neck as he went for another bruising kiss, Lance wondered if he could cry with eyes shut tight. Breathing was hard now, and he surrendered the last of his breath with a sigh against gentle lips – he wasn’t sure anymore whose mouth was kissing who – and Lance thought, half-lucid, doesn’t it say a lot about him when he’s in his element and yet somehow he’s still the odd one out, with legs instead of a tail, and lungs made for dry land, and drowning like the fool he is?

He wanted to cry, even as he tasted the salt on their skin, even as his hands searched for them, holding tightly, grabbing and clawing at anything that was Keith and Shiro and never, never letting go, because he was weak and selfish and he wanted this, he had been wanting this for so long, and so he kissed them back, touched them back, inhaled them greedily until he was dying, until he couldn’t breathe any more, and only then did Lance wake up.

 

He groaned, kicking his blanket off as he sat up, hands rubbing at his eyes as he slowly considered the morning. A glance to his phone told him he had at most 30 minutes left to rush and avoid being late.

Again he groaned, finally acknowledging the bulge on his old PE shorts. Grabbing his towel from the floor and holding it _just so_ to hide his erection, he walked quickly to the communal showers of his dorm, thanking every saint he knew by name that he didn’t bump into anyone on the way. Lance made quick work of his sleeping clothes as soon as he locked himself in one of the shower stalls, and considered his predicament. He could ignore this, he thought. Boners come and go. He did not have time to act like a 14 year old all over again, hot and bothered with slightest show of skin.

Except, Lance truly was hot and bothered. The dream was too vivid for his tastes, and as he shook his hair under the shower, gasping as the cold water ran down his body, the images flooded him behind his eyelids again. As he began to lather up, soapy bubbles smooth and slippery against his skin, he remembered them, all tongues and teeth and tasting every inch of him, and, wow, _fuck_. The cold did nothing to quell his aching need, and Lance was about to break. It’s been a while, and oh _god_ did he want to break. He’s gonna be late, a voice screamed at the back of his skull, but it was distant, unimportant, in the face of his growing hunger.

7 am classes were hard, but so was he.

He could almost feel them again, touching him all over, and his hands followed the path of where theirs had been, trailing down, down, the ghost of their mouths on his neck, his face, his lips, and he let out a staggered breath as he finally caved in and touched himself, one long, languid stroke, thumb resting at the slit. With eyes closed, he thought of them, flanking him on both ends, fucking them and getting fucked by them – he’d feel so full with Shiro inside of him, Keith’s mouth would feel so hot, his throat engulfing him just right as he swallowed around him, oh god, oh god –

Lance’s hand picked up the pace, slow, gradual, because if he was about to be damned with a mar on his perfect attendance, then he will make sure it was well worth sinning for. So sin he did, pumping with one hand, while the other played with his nipples, one pert bud after the other. _Like that, yes, like how they would…_

He was hyperaware now, from the sounds of slamming doors out in the hallway, to the creaking of the pipes, to the water falling on the tiled floor, and his breath came in short huffs, their names repeated in a hush – like whispered secrets, like prayers at once sacred and cursed, verses no one else but him should know -- as his hand picked up the pace, as he shivered under the cold water, his other hand desperate and gripping at his skin, mimicking thoughts of them touching him, holding him, owning him.

Faster, and he exhaled through his mouth, falling open with a desperate need to make a sound but driven by the thought, the fear and excitement both, that someone might hear him. Faster, as he slumped against the tiled wall. Faster, as his back arched, his rump pressed against the cold, head tossed back, a short moan escaping through his lip, biting on it until it’s close to bleeding. Faster, as he bit harder, _ah, Keith—Keith! Ahh—f-faster –! Shiro-- Shi-- ah—_

\--a gasp, a breath hitched, a desperate moan, and he was gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One good thing about being an irregular student in his last sem was that he had more breaks, and so _lunch break_ actually, mercifully coincided with _lunchtime,_ and Lance was always especially thankful for this divine intervention.

As the bell rang, he hefted his backpack on one shoulder, exchanged pleasantries with seatmates, and excused himself from the usual group he frequently hung out with, promising to show them how to answer the difficult items on their last exam, over coffee, Tuesday afternoon, and _Kuya Lance, you promised, we need your help,_ and _yeah, yeah, can’t pass up free food y’know_ and the kids all laughed with him, all was good, here’s another date he can’t ditch, and he parted ways with them to meet up with Hunk.

He found him upstairs, in a quiet corner amidst the frenzy that is lunchtime rush. The busy, bustling fast food chain was packed, with students chatting amiably over their lunch, and the service crew, hands busy with trays carrying plates either full, or totally devoid of food, darting expertly through what tiny space was left with all the rearranging of seats and tables done so each group of friends can all sit together.

Lance slowly made his way to Hunk, who was busy looking out the window, the glass reflecting his brooding face against the dust that had dried up with the water, wide and careless arcs and swirls made by someone’s arm, wiping with hurry just to get the task over and done with.

“ _Hunk,”_ Lance sang as he plopped himself on the seat across him, his voice carrying his usual air of theatrics and melodrama. “Two pieces of chicken _and_ extra rice? _For me?_ Oh, Hunk, you didn’t have to!”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” he nodded sagely, peeling the skin off of his fried chicken. “If I didn’t, you would have complained.”

At this Lance laughed, a loud and full sound straight from his belly. “Oh God, I’m not that shameless! Seriously, you didn’t have to.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he assured him. “It’s payday anyway, and,” he paused, as he put the crisp skin on Lance’s plate, “I am a man of my words, so here you go.

Lance looked up from his plate now overflowing with chicken and rice and brown, crispy fried chicken skin, as his hands flew to his chest. “Hunk, I am _so_ touched, I could weep right now.”

Hunk snorted, crushing his first mound of rice.

“I’m serious. I could. I really could.”

“Yeah yeah,” he conceded. “So,” Hunk started, and here Lance mentally braced himself. “How are things?”

 _How are things_ , he repeated in his mind, testing each word and the myriad of ways he could answer. _Well, Hunk, it’s been weeks, close to a month now, right? Two months? And I finally had a sex dream of them, and also I masturbated to them too, just this morning in fact, but I totally do not have a crush._

Lance frowned. “Things are fine,” he said, casually, his voice taking on a few octaves higher. Hunk raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah?”

 _Mhm, I’m not falling for Shiro’s manly everything, like,_ at all _, and I totally hate Keith, yep, that dorky mullet I keep thinking of pulling at as I scream—_

“Yeah, I think I got the riffs down in that new song.” And then, Lance tacked on, for good measure, “I might have to talk to them about changing the progression though, in the second verse.”

And all through this Lance had concentrated on his food, segmenting the meat from the bones, carefully, almost artfully, and not once meeting Hunk’s inquiring eyes.

“…okay,” Hunk answered him, the hesitation thick in his voice, making Lance know that this okay had not meant “ _okay”_ but instead meant _“okay, I won’t be asking_ right now _, but I expect full disclosure soon, my dude_ ,” and only then did Lance meet his gaze.

“So,” he said, an attempt to change the subject. “Same time today?”

At this prompt, Hunk hummed, a short “hmm” before swallowing. “Actually, change of plans, I had something come up at the office, so you go on ahead without me. I’ll be like, an hour or so late, but I’ll be there.”

He sighed. Commute was always a pain, but it was more bearable when there’s a familiar face around, going through the same horrors of the traffic and the mass of bodies cramped in such a small place. “Aw, man. I’ll miss you.”

“Also,” Hunk continued, “change of venues too. Shiro called earlier, renovations in his garage are done, so we can officially move in there.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

Lance frowned. “He called you but not me?” His voice rose at the last word, like a fish baited, hooked, dead and guilty as fuck, so Lance shoved a spoonful of rice in his already full mouth.

And for once, Hunk couldn’t tell if his friend was joking or if Lance was seriously jealous. “You have classes, Lance,” he explained. “He didn’t want to bother you but he said he’ll text you.”

 _Oh, did he now?_ He thought, grumpily, dumping all the gravy on his rice, then remembered his phone had been shoved haphazardly into his bag that morning, just after it sailed straight through the hole in his pocket. He hasn’t looked at it since.

“I see,” he said, his voice comically formal. Hunk snorted.

“What, you jealous or something?”

Lance shot him a look. “ _No!”_

He laughed. “Dude, you totally have a crush on Shiro.”

“ _I do not!_ ” his voice rose, clear and high in the surrounding din, and Hunk laughed again. Lance frowned. “I. I do _not_ ,” he repeated, in a voice he hoped was more composed, more convincing.

“Uh huh, sure, and my grandma is Meryl Streep.”

“Hunk, shut up, I don’t.”

Hunk regarded him with fondness, and an infuriating, condescending smile, a look Lance himself used whenever he’d tease his younger siblings. “Sure, Jan.”

“I’m serious.”

“Whatever you say, Lance.”

Lance pouted, feeling furious at his defeat, at how he just somehow could not keep a secret from Hunk, and with that he attacked his food instead. _“’Whatever you say, Lance’,”_ he mimicked in a high pitched voice, like some slighted baby animal caught in between a rock and a very, very hard place. He was making a face, eyebrows drawn and lips upturned, half-chewed rice in full display.

Hunk laughed, fully and heartily, and the neighboring tables glanced at the pair. _“A-ny-way,”_ He continued, a singsong voice laden thick with amusement, “since you have no idea where his house is, and I can’t escort you there this afternoon, _Shiro_ will pick _you_ up _later_.”

At this, Lance suddenly came to a halt, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. “What?” he asked. “What about _you_?”

Hunk shrugged, a conspiratorial grin plastered on his face. “I told you, I have _Very Important Things_ to take care of.”

Lance swallowed. “Oh my God, Hunk.”

He shrugged again, daintily dipping a piece of his chicken on the gravy. “Don’t _ever_ let it be said that I’m not a supportive friend, Lance.”

_“Oh my God.”_

 

 

And so, Lance’s last class could not have gone fast enough, taking all his patience not to just barrel through the groups of students idly walking along the corridor. Friends, acquaintances, and other members in his clubs greeting him and him greeting back as he entered the org room, albeit hurriedly, voice a tad too loud, panicking when he can’t find his guitar.

“ _Kuya_ Lance has a date,” one of the sophomores teased him.

“Uh,” he answered, turning around in a circle right in the middle of the room, distracted. “Have you guys seen my guitar? I left it right here,” he said, tapping the long table pushed to the wall.

“Oh, I had to put it up there,” another kid said as he carried a stack of yellowing papers from the cabinet, his lips pointing to a kiss and nodding towards the hanging shelves. “We needed the table organizing the posters and the papers and the archives and, yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Anyway, I really have to go, tell Martha I had the request letter received at the office, one of you guys should pick it up first thing tomorrow.”

“We will,” said one of the older kids, pausing from her continuous tapping on her laptop to eye him curiously. “Don’t let us keep you from your _daaate_.” ~~~~

“God, it’s not a date,” he rolled his eyes. “I mean,” he smiled, “not yet anyway.”

He walked out of the room to a chorus of goodbyes and wolf whistles, with a spring on his step and a smile he could not wipe off his face, no matter how hard he tried, no matter the number of curious glances from other students he passed by.

 

 

As it turns out, the one thing that can wipe off that same smile came wooshing in, a hard stare framed by a red helmet. Instantly his face fell.

Keith tossed him a black helmet.

“Where’s Shiro?” he asked, fumbling his catch.

“His car broke down.” Short, succinct, to the point. Quipped, snobbish, _annoying_. He sighed, loud, making sure Keith could hear it through the helmet and the thick, coarse hair framing his face.

“Just get on,” Keith said.

“Do you seriously expect me to ride that _thing_? That _death machine?”_

He gave him a passive blink. “No, I’m expecting you to ride my dick. What the _fuck_ do you think?”

Lance would have volleyed back a dick joke or something similar, except the abruptness in Keith’s voice made him flinch, and suddenly he wasn’t up for friendly banter anymore.

“What’s your problem?” He mumbled, gripping the black thing in his hands, his palms absorbing the cold of the surface.

Keith stopped and looked at him, suddenly sorry. Just like that, all the unwelcoming air rolling off of him in waves vanished, and now his face was open, and Lance could have sworn the only thing between them at that moment was the protective head gear, which Keith lifted up, freeing his hair and looking at Lance closely, leaning towards him just the slightest bit.

Carefully and, in a tone Keith hoped sounded kind, he asked him, “Wait, are you… actually scared? Of motorcycles?”

Lance bristled. “ _No_.”

He was indignant. He wasn’t nervous about that red thing Keith always had an affinity for, in any and all lives he had known him to exist in _. His soul is probably a damn  greaser_ , he thought _, a hot,_ hot _greaser_ , the beginnings of a slow bass line, something straight from an Arctic Monkeys song, playing in the back of his head, _cruising in that damn thing like he has no idea what he does to people, God._

“Then what’s wrong?”

 _I’m nervous about_ you _,_ Lance almost spat out. He frowned. “Nothing.”

It was Keith’s turn to sigh. And then, “I’ll go slow,” he said, sparing him a glance.

Lance wondered if the softness underneath those eyelashes was supposed to reassure him.

He watched him rev up the engine, or whatever it’s called in motorcycle lingo, Lance thought in passing. _Doing that vroom vroom thing_ , he decided, as he jerkily hefted up his one leg around the seat, balancing the guitar flat on his back, as Keith took his bag from him, while his one hand held on to Keith’s shoulder. _Who does he think he is, anyway? Probably knows he looks hot as heck doing it too, what a showoff_.

“You okay?” he heard Keith’s muffled voice as he turned slightly to look back at him. He had the helmet back on.

He moved the suffocating thing side to side, settling on the least uncomfortable way his face was squished, and then bobbed his head backward and forward, an attempt at a nod with the new weight around his head.

Keith turned to the road ahead of him. “Hold on,” Lance heard him say.

A beat passed, then two, and then it was already too long but still they did not move.

“I said,” Keith turned to him again before Lance could make a quip, “ _hold on_.”

“I _am_ holding on.” His hands gripped tighter the cold steel just behind his butt, as if to prove a point.

“Hold on to _me_ , Lance, unless you want to fly off.”

“What?” Lance squawked, and again there went his voice, jumping two octaves higher, a squeak of indignation and disbelief. He cleared his throat. “What?” he tried again. “No, no way.”

Lance thought he heard him snort. The shoulders in front of him shrugged, a small gesture accompanying his amused voice.

“Suit yourself,” Keith said.

“Wait I thought you said you’d go slow—“

 

And they were off.

 

* * *

 

 

“You think it’s a good idea to send Keith there?” Pidge asked, offering a wrench to a tattooed arm, the rest of Shiro’s upper half inspecting the underside of the car.

“It’s not like we have much of a choice.”

“Uh, we had plenty, and I think you know that.”

“Pidge,” and Shiro emerged from underneath, cheeks greased, white undershirt drenched in sweat. “Are you saying I’m lying?”

“Well I ain’t calling you a truther,” Pidge quoted, laughing. “Seriously. What are you up to?”

He got up, rolling his left shoulder slowly as he walked to the hood of the car. “Nothing.”

“Come on.”

“ _Nothing_ , Pidge. I just thought they could use some bonding moment.”

They chortled, loud, graceful as a ten-wheeler truck careening off a cliff. “Is that what this is about?”

A long, comfortable silence followed, broken only by Pidge loudly slurping the rest of the contents of their juice box, Shiro at a loss with what to do about his car because so far, everything has checked out, and yet it wouldn’t start.

“Just wait ‘til Hunk gets here, Shiro,” Pidge said eventually. “We’ll figure out what’s wrong with it, trust me.”

“I don’t want to trouble you two,” he said, standing back up and sighing. But he truly had no idea what was wrong anymore, and maybe, just maybe, it’s time he accepted the fact that needed help from his team mates.

“Do you…” Pidge said.

Shiro waited, but nothing else came after.

He straightened up, stretching and feeling his back ache. “What is it?”

They looked at him, small and serene and wide-eyed. “You said Lance wasn’t lying. So do you remember? Do you remember too?”

Shiro sat beside them, slowly, his muscles aching with exhaustion. “I’m not sure, to be honest. All I have are snippets.”

Pidge looked at the swirls of black ink permanently etched on Shiro’s skin, a testament to whatever snippets his memory had caught and held on to over the years. “Some of the songs you wrote make more sense when I think about it in the context of one of his stories,” they said quietly.

“Just some?” He smiled at them. “So do you believe it?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” they shrugged. “Do I have to pick a side, believing or not believing? Can’t I just keep everything as information that may or may not be useful in the future?”

He hummed. “That’s fair enough.”

Pidge shaked the empty juice box and set it on the floor in front of them. “Do you remember if he… if we…”

Again, nothing else came after, and they stayed like that for a while, just staring at the juice box, its shadow dancing, growing in different sizes as Pidge twirled it around with one hand. In the silence that followed, Shiro could only guess what was supposed to come next, but between Pidge’s far-off gaze and the hesitation of not quite knowing how to break a question without breaking hearts, he knew his guess was only as sure as him guessing that the sun would rise tomorrow.

Eventually, Pidge set the box down. “Well, it’s nice to think about it, anyway,” they said.

“About what?”

“Other lives,” they hummed, standing up and brushing off the dust on their knees. “Alternate lives. Things that could’ve been. What ifs. Just, different lives.”

Shiro kept quiet, watching Pidge wipe the sweat off their cheek with their sleeve.

“You done with your car?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“Found out what’s wrong?”

He shook his head.

Pidge laughed. “Hunk and I will look at it later, promise.”

Shiro wasn’t sure what he did in these lives he once lived through to deserve these people in his life, but he was not about to question the universe and have it realize it was a mistake and take them all away, so he smiled and said, “Thank you, Pidge.”

“Eh, it’s nothing. I’m gonna be up on the roof if you need me.”

“Wait, why?”

“Espionage,” Pidge answered, a playful glint in their eyes. “I’m pretty sure our neighbour is having an affair, but I need more evidence.”

“Pidge, that’s not nice.”

They laughed, already walking away from him. “I’m joking! It’s breezy up there.”

“Be careful.”

“Yeah.”

“That ladder is old, Pidge, I’m serious.”

“ _Yeah_ , Shiro, don’t worry.”

And they were off, leaving Shiro on the garage floor, watching their retreating back, thinking of what his old friend would have said if he was there instead of him.

 

* * *

 

Lance supposed a day would come when he’d look back on that afternoon and laugh, because by then he wouldn’t hate Keith and his guts so much, maybe even find it charming, but presently, Lance just wished Keith would slow the fuck down, a wish he wasted no time yelling at Keith.

“Slow the _fuck_ down!” He screeched, the front of Keith’s shirt trapped in Lance’s balled fists.

But Keith gave no indication of hearing him, as they curved dangerously around another alley and zoomed right past.

“Keith there’s a speed limit! Keith I don’t want to die! _Keith!”_

Keith rounded another corner, and Lance held on tighter for dear life.

 

The ride had started out smoothly enough, Keith keeping his word. It was near impossible to go any faster when you’re traversing the major roads and highways of this city with the constant bumper-to-bumper traffic, anyway, and Keith had to manoeuvre them into tight spaces in between cars to get a move on.

Time dragged on, and soon enough Keith had them right on the sidewalk, the people they drove past not minding them at all, like this was a very common and very okay thing to do.

And truly, Lance tried to look past this, tried to excuse Keith. But soon enough they were out of the denser parts of the city, and while the crisscrossing streets and alleyways were not any wider, their only occupants were parked cars, and the occasional basketball courts set up by the neighbourhood kids.

And then, slowly but surely, Keith turned into a monster.

 

“Keith, _please,_ ” Lance cried to Keith’s shoulder, softly, as he watched the tall walls protecting even taller houses zoom past them in a blur. Keith had entered one of the nicer neighborhoods in the area, it would seem, and with the heat beating down mercilessly, save for the few stray dogs, no one else was out, and they had the streets all to themselves.

“We’re almost there.”

Lance frowned. So the fucker _can_ hear him the entire time. Suddenly he wanted to keep quiet and hope Keith feels the cold treatment even when they were practically being fried alive in the heat of the sun, even when he’s still pressed too tightly against his back. Maybe Keith would think twice if he started missing his voice, Lance thought.

Miracle of miracles, as Keith approached an intersection that would eventually lead them back to the busier main roads, he started slowing down.

 

At the first stoplight, none of them said a word. Five minutes later, as the traffic came to a complete standstill, Keith muttered impatiently, “What is with this traffic?” but Lance ignored him and opted to count down the seconds instead.

Some 14 seconds in and Lance realized _mmmaybe_ he should have let go of Keith’s shirt since the start of his countdown, but the chance to do so has already passed them, and now, when he’s also pointedly trying to make Keith notice he was pretending he is nothing to him, _now_ it would be even more awkward to move and have them both be reminded of how close he was to Keith, and how tightly he was holding on to him.

And then they were moving again.

“Finally, right?” Keith said, and again Lance was quiet.

By the third stoplight, Lance still has not said a word to Keith, and as they slowed to a complete stop, Lance felt him shift, and finally he let go, just a bit, and sat back.

“Um. Lance. You okay?” Keith asked, head turned just slightly, eyes peering at him with genuine concern.

And that was what did it, the look on his eyes, and just like that Lance was undone, Lance was vulnerable, Lance was playing a losing game because suddenly he wanted to be honest and open to this Keith, and so he said, “We died.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Lance, I wasn’t even overspeeding, relax—“

“No, _listen to me_.”

Keith let out a small sigh.

Lance leaned back, and slowly he took his hands back. He looked at the sky overhead, segmented in angles by tall skyscrapers. “There was so much blood, Keith. We never stood a chance.”

Maybe it was the sudden detachment, or the strange quietness in Lance’s voice, or how he sounded like he was in a trance, like he wasn’t all there with him anymore, but Keith felt something cold slithering in the pit of his stomach and slowly, carefully, he turned to Lance.

“Lance, what—what are you talking about?”

Lance blinked, eyes moving from the sky back to Keith. Keith, who was awake and alive and not sprawled unconscious by his wrecked motorcycle some fifty paces away from him.

If Lance was being completely honest, he’d tell Keith that he wasn’t actually sure they both died, then, because the last thing he remembered of that life was the heaviness of his body, the throbbing in his head that felt like all the universe was coming down on him in waves and made his vision go blurry, and the bitterness at the cruel fact that he was flung too far away to shake Keith awake and make sure he was okay.

He could let himself be carried away completely, right there, in the middle of the traffic and the pollution and the heat-haze that made everything feel slick and unreal. He could do it. He could tell Keith everything. Keith would laugh, or Keith would think again that he’s a scammer, but Lance knew with sudden clarity that he could do it, if he so wished to do it.

But the look of confusion and concern in Keith’s eyes tethered him, and he sighed. “Sorry, I just—“

“Are you okay?”

“I have… a bad memory involving motorcycles. Should’ve told you before I got on.”

Keith looked at him, unsure of what to say.

The other vehicles around them have started moving, multiple cars swerving and overtaking them, more than a few honking loudly before driving past.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “C’mon, let’s go.”

 

At the fifth stoplight, Keith turned to him again. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t been talking much.”

Lance shrugged. “Got nothing to say."

A minute of silence followed. And then, uncertainly groping for the light switch in the absolute darkness Lance had somehow managed to safely, quietly keep himself in, Keith tried again: “I promise I’ll be careful, Lance.”

Lance huffed, a small breath of a laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I promise. Trust me.”

And with the traffic easing up and the queue of vehicles moving again, Keith turned back to the road, and only when they were moving again did Lance look at him. A resigned sort of fondness in his voice, he asked, “And when was Keith Kogane ever careful?”

Keith briefly entertained the thought of answering him sincerely, because at least Lance was talking again, Lance was finally responsive again, and Keith did not like at all the unsettling flavour of Lance’s quietness that afternoon, but the way Lance’s hands felt on his shoulders -- the weight light and comforting, reassuring, even, that he was still with him, but the muscles tense, like he was trying not to hold on too hard -- and with the sad way Lance had looked at him, Keith decided that it was his turn now to keep the silence.

Because Keith was a connoisseur of silence. Keith knew silence like he knew every curve in his blade. Keith knew companionable silence with Shiro, he knew lonesome silence by himself, he knew pregnant silence as he waits in the dark, listening for the smallest sounds of an intruder. But the silence of deep waters, the silence just before fins break surface tension, the silence of sharks circling them, drawn to the bleeding of Lance’s festering wounds – this, Keith knew with certainty that he was ill-equipped for this.

But then again, when did Keith Kogane ever stop to think about what he did and did not know before jumping right in?

They stopped at a crossroad, and he turned to Lance. “Let me show you something,” he said, and without waiting for Lance to answer, Keith turned left, away from Shiro’s house.

“Are you kidnapping me?” Lance laughed.

“Yes,” Keith said, voice serious. “I should’ve bound and gagged you first, now that I think about it.”

“Kinky.”

He snorted. “You have no idea.”

Soon Keith parked on the side of the road, hopping over the railing, and Lance followed him as he led them uphill.

“You’re not gonna murder me here in cold blood, are you?” he asked the back of Keith’s head.

He didn’t turn around. “Why would I do that?”

“I dunno,” Lance shrugged. “Haven’t you always hated me, anyway?”

They kept walking.

“Then why did you come with me?” Keith asked eventually.

Lance was starting to tire, walking slowly up a slope, the guitar still strapped to his back. “I’m,” he stopped, to breathe, and to think of an answer. “Well, I _am_ curious what it was you wanted me to see,” he admitted.

Again, silence, and soon Lance lost himself in his own thoughts. The sun had started to ease up, and with the thick clouds rolling in, the trek uphill was more bearable, if only for a bit. _It’s nice here,_ he thought, looking up at the blue sky, the clouds blindingly white. A while away from the noise of the city, Lance estimated at least an extra hour or so of commute, not counting the traffic, in exchange for fresher air and peace, and he concluded it was a fair enough trade. If Keith were to truly murder him there and then bury his body deep enough, no one would ever know. _Hunk might_ , he consoled himself, but remembered that as far as Hunk was concerned, Shiro was supposed to pick him up, not Keith. All Shiro had to do was tell the police that his car broke down and he couldn’t go, and just never mention the fact that he sent Keith instead.

 _Shiro would cover for Keith_ , he thought. _Shiro would never think twice, Shiro would always pick Keith._

_Just as it has always been. Just as it would always be._

Eyes trained upwards, Lance missed two things: Keith glancing back at him, and the sincere concern for him in his eyes.

 

At the top, Lance followed to where Keith had come to a stop. From where they were, they could see below the little squares of houses, yellow-white in the afternoon sun. Far over the horizon, jutting out like uneven growths of teeth, the tall buildings of the rest of the city.

“There,” Keith pointed.

Lance followed the stretch of his arm to the tip of his finger and saw a red roof.

“That’s Shiro’s house,” Keith said.

“You could’ve just brought me there, y’know, like originally planned.”

And then Keith, flustered, frowned.

“I just thought,” he started, and then stopped, glancing at Lance. Lance, still studying what he could see of Shiro’s house, again, missed this.

“What?” he asked, tiptoeing in the hopes of having a better view.

“Nothing,” he grumbled. Keith was beginning to regret his decisions and every single point in his life that somehow led him to doing this. Quickly he turned back and started walking. “Let’s go.”

“No, wait,” Lance whined. “I like it here.”

He stopped. “You do?”

“Yeah, it’s nice. And you can see _everything_.”

Keith chuckled behind him, honestly relieved. “Not everything, but okay.”

Lance didn’t seem to hear him. “Look over there!” he shrieked, pointing at the same red roof Keith did a while ago. “Who’s that on the roof? Is that Pidge?”

He walked closer and, just as Lance said, a small figure was up on the roof.

“ _Pidge!_ ” Lance yelled.

“I don’t think they can hear you.”

“ _PIDGE!_ ” Lance yelled louder, hands cupped around his mouth.

“Could you stop—“

“ _PIIIIIIIDGE! OVER HEEEEEEERE!”_ Lance had started jumping up and down, waving his arms about.

“Please don’t make me regret bringing you here.”

He whirled around, and looked at Keith. “Why _did_ you bring me here anyway? If you’re just gonna keep ruining my fun?”

“I thought,” Keith started, frowning at Lance’s rudeness, and, suddenly feeling small, he turned to the houses below them instead. “It’s nice up here,” he said quietly, “so I come here often. I just thought, maybe you’d like it too.”

A soft breeze came, blowing Keith’s hair away from his face, and Lance just stared and stared.

 

Later on, as they make their way back, Keith finally bringing them to their destination, Lance would be strangely quiet behind him again, replaying in his head his memories, thinking, _Has Keith always been like this?_ Thinking, _Has it always been so hard to pin him down?_ Thinking, _Has it always been so hard to read him?_

Thinking, _Has Keith always been a mystery to me?_

And Lance’s nervous habit of tapping his fingers when he would think about serious matters a new comfort to Keith, feeling the rhythm of Lance’s thoughts from his shoulder to his bones, eventually wearing it on his face, Keith smiling at a job well done, bringing Lance back down, if only just long enough for them to pull him closer, closer, until, with enough gravity from their planets, maybe he wouldn’t stray too off-course anymore.

Later on, when the freak storm would have all five of them stranded in Shiro’s house, Keith would be tapping his foot to this same rhythm, fingers mapping the chords to a tune that made him think of Lance’s noise, Lance’s voice, Lance’s loud yammering about past lives and friendships and found families in faraway galaxies. Later on, Lance, wearing Keith’s Voltes V shirt, would walk in on him and ask, “Is that a new song?”

And he would nod at Lance and tell him, “This is from your thoughts.”

“ _’Your Thoughts,_ ’” Lance would repeat to himself, tasting his words. “That’s a good title, Keith.”

And with a quiet smile, Keith would agree.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kuya - honorific, means "older brother," but also used for guys either older than you by a few years, or if you're unsure of their age, like maybe they could be close enough your own but want to be on the safe and not-rude side of things
> 
> Also, that's right, fun sleepovers next time hehe


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